by Shea Godfrey
“Can you touch me, Akasha?” Jessa’s voice was both pleased and anxious as she spoke against Darry’s mouth, and their eyes met.
Tears slipped from green and blue eyes, and Jessa bit her lower lip as the fingers of Darry’s right hand slid between her legs. She took hold of Darry’s wrist and guided her touch, Darry’s left arm about her waist. Her hips drove smoothly, slowly at first and then faster as her mouth sought the kiss she needed.
She felt her control slip away beneath the sweet pressure of her need, oddly uncertain of where she would end up. Darry’s hand began to stroke with more strength, and Jessa cried out, arched, and spent her spirit.
Darry’s eyes were alive, and Jessa could feel her lover’s soul invade her own. She could feel Darry’s wildness and she could feel her sweetness. She could feel Darry’s strength and her quiet, the silence of that secret place Darry loved beyond all measure laid bare before her. She felt it all, and entangled in the warmth and overwhelmed by the essence of Darry’s majik, she let it wash through her.
Her own power rose up in a blissful, harmonious rush, and the Great Loom spun beneath them, its threads unbound and soft as they brushed past. Jessa tried to hold the unfamiliar runes that burst within her chest, for she had no idea what the spell was, or even what it might do, but it was beyond her power to do so. She let the runes surge through her blood instead, to eventually rest as they might choose.
Chapter Fourteen
The throne room of Blackstone Keep was long and narrow, with staggered pews that lined both sides of the room. Three rows high and made of deeply polished redwood, they would accommodate guests and witnesses to any formal function. The walls were made of a stone that was the color of sand, though Jessa could see that it was not the sandstone so common in her own country.
The many banners of the House of Durand hung upon the walls, fastened with golden spikes. Made of the finest Damassus silk, they would ripple and snap gently within the flow of air that moved through the chamber. The scarlet-and-black banner of the Sunn Wars, when the Lyonese people had paid a great price in a losing effort to secure the Lowlands, hung upon the wall to the right of the dais and was prominent above all other battle standards. There were flags for each Durand king, and they lined the walls on both sides of the main aisle, from the dais to the massive blackwood doors at the opposite end of the chamber. Hanging last upon the wall was the banner of Malcolm Laurus Durand, who was meant to be king but was fated to die young instead.
The windows were narrow and made of stained glass, the midday sunlight red and gold as it sliced into the chamber and splashed onto the burnished oak of the floor. Sconces made of gold and black wrought iron hung from golden chains as they lined the aisle down the center of the chamber, their light rich and filled with warmth.
Two thrones stood upon the dais at the far end of the room, and the largest one was the Blackwood Throne, as renowned as Bharjah’s though not nearly as infamous.
The wooden throne was as black as pitch and polished to such a high shine that when the sunlight graced its surface, it was wise to look away. The seat was wide and the arms were broad, though it was the back of the throne that was the most impressive.
Carved with stunning skill and patience, the backrest of the Durand throne fanned out in a magnificent representation of the tree that was its namesake. Thick branches reached well over eight feet into the air and were decorated with hundreds of carved leaves that hung from every branch. Each leaf, suspended from golden rings that allowed for movement, was stained in a tone that was slightly different from the rest. No two stems were the same and the veins upon each leaf were unique. The throne was an almost living thing, and each detail had been rendered with exquisite ability and pride.
Jessa had never seen its like; the Jade Throne was gaudy and almost miserable when compared to the craftsmanship on display before her. The branches that spread outward to the left were curved and full and offered their shade and protection to a smaller version of the Blackwood Throne. Polished in a lighter color, the queen’s throne was nestled beneath the comfort and protection of the king’s, no less beautiful for its smaller size. Though it lacked branches and leaves of its own, the intricate carvings that decorated its smooth surface were said to incorporate the deeds of each queen of the Durand name, and paid honor to their own bloodlines.
An odd grin pulled at Darry’s mouth as they stood to the right of the main aisle, some ten feet from the first step of the dais. Her expression was one that Jessa had not seen before. “I tipped that damn thing over once.”
Jessa let out a startled breath. “You did no such thing, Darrius.”
“I did. I like to climb trees.”
“It would be too heavy—I don’t believe you.”
Darry sighed in mock offense. “If you rock it back and forth and your brother is pushing from the bottom? It will tip over, trust me.”
Jessa felt the humor rise within her chest and she shoved it back down. She eyed the king and queen where they spoke with the commander near the doors behind the dais, Grissom accompanied by the new captain of the Palace Guard. “You’re quite mad, Darry, I’ve always known it.”
Darry smiled, satisfied. “Look up.”
Jessa debated with herself for a moment and then did as she was told. Her eyes narrowed upon the massive crack that ran through the mortar between the ceiling stones, the wound old and jagged as it reached across half the room.
“A huge, booming voice that caused my grandmother to cover her ears,” Darry whispered. “So huge that the ceiling stones cracked and the mortar crumbled.”
Jessa laughed as she remembered the story of the Moonblood orchids within the Queen’s Garden. When she looked back down, it was to find a white tulip, its thick stem held with care by a bandaged hand. A flower not unlike the one Darry’s grandmother had used as a substitute for her much desired orchids.
“It was the best I could do on short notice.”
Jessa gave a sigh and grabbed the lapels of Darry’s jacket with both hands. “If I had known you were here, waiting for me, I would have crawled from Lyoness if I had to. I would have come for you, Darry.”
“Had I known you were coming, I would’ve sent you my horse. She’s very fast.”
Jessa smiled, pulled her lover close, and kissed her, careful as she wrapped her hand about the flower still between them. “Stop being so bloody charming now,” Jessa whispered as she pulled back slightly. Darry’s eyes were filled with life, and a pleasant shaft of desire knifed through Jessa’s loins. She looked down at the soft petals and tried to regain her composure. “And do not do anything foolish, either.”
“Like kiss my backwards lover in the throne room, for all to see?”
Jessa turned and stood up straight. With care, she slid the tulip into the pocket of her cloak. “Do not be thickheaded, Darrius, I am the one who kissed you.”
Darry smoothed at her jacket. “As you like.”
“Are you ready, Princess?” Owen asked as he walked about the throne. “They are here.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Jessa answered and pulled at her cloak. The hood came up and she stepped back from the sunlight that reached through the stained glass windows and splashed the center aisle.
The shadows welcomed her and she wove the runes for the Veil of Shadows. The unnatural breeze moved through the chamber and the banners rippled in response, the king a bit startled as the leaves above his head reacted. One of the lamps along the aisle swayed with a clank of its chain and its flame went out, and then another, the sudden distraction the center of attention.
*
When Owen returned his attention to the Lyonese princess, Jessa was nowhere to be seen. “Bloody hell and hounds,” he mumbled to himself and took his seat.
His daughter stood strong and tall, dressed in clean, crisp clothes. He thought she looked strange without her Kingsman blacks. Dark brown trousers and a green tunic that buttoned, the crossover collar undone and draped down handsomely beneath a matchin
g brown jacket that was cropped at the waist. It was all tailored and made of the best homespun, the green of her shirt a perfect match in color to her right eye. Her hair was held in a loose tie behind her neck, and the wild curls seemed to ache for their freedom as they always did. At her waist she wore a dagger and the sword she had claimed in battle, the weapons held by a brown leather belt that matched her boots.
Owen let out a sigh of amusement as he situated his chair cushion in order to favor his wounded leg. The wound wasn’t bad, as such things went, but it was an unpleasant reminder that he was not as young as he once was.
“What is it?” Cecelia asked as she sat beside him. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. She reminds me of my brother, for all that she looks nothing like him. He might’ve even thrown more gold away than she does.”
“At what?”
Owen scratched at his clean-shaven cheek. “Her love of fine clothes. Mal was a hound for thread as much as she is, though he favored silks more.”
“They seem to be alike in many ways,” she said quietly. “Perhaps it is a place to start.”
Owen cleared his throat and leaned back upon his throne. His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared down the distance, as if he could see into the Great Hall beyond.
There was a sharp rap and the doors opened.
*
Prince Malcolm and his party entered the throne room and they walked with purpose, Princes Malcolm and Jacob followed by Joaquin and Malcolm’s advisor, Marteen Salish. Their clothes were dusty from the road and they looked exhausted.
“Father!” Malcolm called and his voice echoed through the chamber.
Jessa moved like a ghost behind Darry and the others, determined to find a place close to Joaquin. She would need to see him in full, if she was to make a proper judgment of his words.
Jessa noted Darry’s face as Malcolm walked past her, and she could feel the majik in the room change. The unique scent that was Darry’s majik rose up, and Jessa knew her lover’s temper rose with it. She could feel the rage, and more than that, she could sense that a very exclusive and uncertain danger was suddenly at hand. Darry’s Cha-Diah majik was unstable.
Malcolm’s company came to a stop at the foot of the dais, and Prince Jacob turned back. He smiled at Darry and reached out to her, a bid for her to come forth and stand beside them. His eyes were filled with uncertainty, and Jessa knew he must feel decidedly uncomfortable for a man who was used to knowing more than everyone else.
Darry winked at him and nodded toward the dais.
“I would speak to Prince Trey-Jak Joaquin,” Owen announced, and his voice held an icy tone that Jessa had not heard before. It sent a shiver of anxiety along her spine, and she pulled her cloak more tightly about her shoulders.
Jacob stepped to the side and Joaquin came forward. “My Lord, I am here,” he said. “And I am very pleased to see that all of you are well.”
“Yes,” Owen said smoothly. “I appreciate your concern.”
Malcolm approached the foot of the dais. “Father, what has happened here? There are bodies burning in the north field, and I have never seen Blackstone so fortified. Why are there men of the City Guard walking the walls?”
“Your message said very little, but that you were safe,” Jacob added. “Some sort of attack had come in the night, but that was all. Captain Biro only—”
“Jacob,” Malcolm turned on him. “Let me speak, please.”
“Did I not say that I wished to speak with Prince Joaquin?” Owen asked.
“Yes, Father, but I would—”
“Then shut your mouth and let me speak with him.”
Malcolm was startled by the reprimand. “Yes, Father, but I need to—”
“Captain Jefs!”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Be so kind as to take the Crown Prince and his advisor, Lord Salish, into the Great Hall and have them wait for my summons. If they protest, you have my permission to give them a tour of the cells beneath the south wing. Perhaps the damp chill there will settle their nerves.”
“Aye, my Lord, but those cells are full now.”
Owen voiced his annoyance with a rumble as Joaquin glanced at Malcolm with startled eyes. “Is there room in the south tower?”
“Aye, Your Majesty.”
“Then take them there.”
Malcolm was stunned. “Father, what in the hell is—”
Captain Jefs barked the order and the doors behind the dais opened. A squad of the Palace Guard came through them, armed with halberds and pikes.
Marteen Salish stepped close and touched Malcolm’s arm. “Mal, let us—”
“Don’t touch me.” Malcolm jerked his arm away.
“Let us go,” Salish finished, the skin of his neck dark with a sudden blush.
“Prince Joaquin is my guest, Father, and I have a right to be here,” Malcolm declared. “No matter what the circumstances are, he is under my protection.”
“He is my guest, Malcolm, and he is here by my pleasure only,” Owen corrected. “Take them both to the tower, Captain Jefs. I will send for them when I have need of them.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Captain Jefs bowed his head and turned immediately to Malcolm. “If you will come with me, my Lords?”
Malcolm seemed to calm, though his face was red with his anger. As he turned, he saw Jacob beside Darry. “Bring her as well,” he ordered, his tone spiteful. “If I have no right to be here, she most certainly doesn’t.”
Darry met her brother’s eyes.
“The Lady Darrius may stay,” Owen declared from the throne.
“Lady?” Malcolm replied. “Do not dishonor the word.”
Darry moved before even Jessa could have predicted.
Her left hand landed hard upon Joaquin’s right shoulder and shoved him out of the way as she attacked. Malcolm stumbled back in surprise, put his arms out in a meager effort to protect himself, and then he fell, the sound of Darry’s fist as it connected with his jaw surprisingly loud.
Malcolm hit the floor with a resounding thud, and Darry wasted no time, her right knee upon his stomach as she yanked him up by his tunic and hit him again. Jessa watched as Darry’s strength rolled down from her shoulders with the blow, and Malcolm’s head snapped back and banged against the floor.
“Darrius!” Cecelia called.
Darry hit him a third time and then dropped him, Malcolm now unconscious and splayed out beneath her. She looked over her shoulder. “Yes, Mother?”
Cecelia stood before her throne and looked down at her daughter. “Perhaps this is not the best time for you to settle your grievances.”
Owen had not moved, though his sudden laughter floated through the room.
Darry watched her father and Jessa saw the confusion in her eyes, though it was only for a moment. Darry looked down at her brother, and then used his body to push herself to her feet. She straightened her jacket and pointed at Marteen Salish. “You’re next, little toad.”
Two of the Palace Guards took Malcolm by the arms, flipped him over, and then dragged him back down the aisle. His boots bounced along the floor, and his head swayed back and forth to the awkward gait.
“Take him to his chambers, Jefs,” Owen ordered across the room. “See that he stays there until I send for him.”
“Lord Salish?” Captain Jefs inquired.
Salish turned to him with a start, his cheeks a bright red.
Captain Jefs extended a hand toward the doors at the end of the aisle. “If you would be so kind as to accompany me?”
“Where is your man, Joaquin? Where is Lord Serabee El-Khan?” Owen asked.
Joaquin turned from the sight of Malcolm being dragged away, with Marteen Salish close behind. “I do not know, my Lord,” Joaquin answered and glanced at Darry as she returned to her place beside Prince Jacob. “When your men arrived to say that Blackstone had been attacked, we came at once. Lord Serabee was not to be found.”
Jessa watched her brother with car
eful eyes, saw his left hand going flat against his abdomen just above his sword hilt. He applied pressure and a grimace of discomfort came and went. The gesture was familiar to Jessa—Joaquin’s anxiety gnawed at his stomach, it always had. Abdul-Azim, sixth in line for Bharjah’s throne if age were to be taken into account, could only eat his food if it had been ground into a fine paste and mixed with goat’s milk. Rashid-Warith, fourth in line, had much the same problem, though he tended to spend most of his time in the privy. And so go the sad sons of Bharjah, one way or another, Jessa thought, not without some cynical amusement.
“Is not El-Khan your man?” the king demanded as his wife took her seat once more.
The blackwood doors that led to the Great Hall closed with a boom, and Joaquin glanced over his shoulder with a start. “Yes, my Lord.”
“And he follows your command?”
“Where is my sister?” Joaquin asked. “Where is the Princess Jessa-Sirrah?”
Jessa took a step back at the mention of her name, careful of the runes that floated through her mind. She deepened the Veil as she waited for Owen to capture the first piece upon the board.
“She is dead,” Owen answered. “Killed by your man, the Lord Serabee El-Khan.”
Joaquin’s right temple gave a hard twitch. “He is not my man.”
“But you just said he was,” Owen countered. “Which is it?”
“And the Lady Radha?” Joaquin demanded.
“Dead.”
“If this is so, then El-Khan is not my man.”
“But otherwise he would be?”
Joaquin smiled and Jessa knew he sensed a trap. “That is not what I—”
“You must have very little authority, Prince Joaquin, if your man is yours but not yours. I had not thought that Bharjah would send me his dregs to bargain with.”
Joaquin bristled and his shoulders went back slightly. “You had no intention of allowing my sister to sit upon your wife’s throne,” he accused. “You were playing your own game, my Lord. Everyone is playing a game.”